“She’s not dead?”
“I don’t think so. I can’t see why she would be.”
“But if they thought she told you and Jennifer what was really going on…?”
“I don’t think they knew what she told us, and she’s too valuable to them.”
“But they must have found out something.” Annie said. “Jennifer and Roy Banks are dead. When Jennifer told Roy, he must have started digging, asking questions. He had contact with people who… well, let’s just say he knew criminals.”
“Perhaps I am wrong then. I don’t know. All I know about Carmen is what she told me. She got pregnant, so he sent her to me. I suppose the only unusual thing is that Carmen has decided to have the baby. She’s a devout Catholic and she refused to have a termination.”
“That’s permitted?”
“In some circumstances,” said Dr. Lukas. “It would depend on the loss of income. Carmen is one of the special girls, blessed with good looks and a fine figure. She is also a very intelligent girl and she speaks English very well. She was never a street prostitute, more what you would term a call girl.”
“So how is he going to make for his loss of income?”
“I can only guess,” said Dr. Lukas. “There are some men who like to have sex with pregnant women and are willing to pay extra for it. That way she would have fewer customers but make as much, or more, money.”
Annie’s stomach turned. She could understand why Dr. Lukas wasn’t eating. She’d lost her appetite as well. “And the baby?”
“Adoption. She spoke about the way they were taking care of her and feeding her well for a Mr. Garrett, who I assume is paying good money for Carmen’s baby.”
“Will you tell me the pimp’s name?”
“His real name is Hadeon Mazuryk. He calls himself Harry. His nickname is ‘Happy Harry’ because he looks eternally sad. He is not, of course, it’s just a freak of physiognomy.”
“Do you know where he keeps the girls?”
Dr. Lukas nodded. “There’s a house near King’s Cross. I went there once. An emergency. You must be careful, though.”
“Why?”
“He has a gun. I’ve seen it.”
Banks had raided Roy’s wardrobe again for suitable attire. He didn’t think he would get far in the Albion Club wearing jeans and a casual shirt. Trousers were a problem. Roy’s didn’t fit him and he had brought only one pair of trousers, which didn’t match any of Roy’s jackets. In the end he just had to hope the place was poorly lit so that black and navy blue didn’t look too bad together.
The man on the door, looking rather like a cross between a butler and a bouncer, asked him for his membership. Banks flashed his warrant card.
“Police? I hope there’s no trouble, sir?” he said.
“None at all,” said Banks. “Just a few questions and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Questions?”
“Yes. Were you on duty here last Friday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember Roy Banks arriving with Gareth Lambert?”
“Such a tragedy about Mr. Banks. The perfect gentleman. Who could do such a thing?”
“Who indeed? But did you see them arrive?”
“Yes. It would have been about ten o’clock.”
“And were you here when they left?”
“They didn’t leave together. Mr. Banks left first, at about twelve-thirty, and Mr. Lambert stayed much later. Perhaps three o’clock, something like that.”
So Lambert was telling the truth about that much, at least. “Did they leave alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where Mr. Banks went after he left?”
“Mr. Banks didn’t say. He just bade me good night as usual.”
“You didn’t call a minicab for him?”
“There are always plenty of taxis on The Strand, and there’s a taxi rank at Charing Cross.”
“Right,” said Banks. “Okay to go inside?”
“Please try not to upset the members.”
“I only want to talk to the staff.”
“Very well.”
Banks was surprised when he got inside the club. The door opened into a spacious low-ceilinged bar, and where he had been expecting dark wainscoting, chandeliers and waiters in burgundy bum-freezers, he found tubular fittings, halogen lighting and waitresses in pinstripe suits, with trousers rather than skirts. Fan-shaped splashes of color from well-hidden lights decorated the walls in shades of blue, pink, green, red and orange. The chrome tables were high, with matching leather-topped stools. This definitely wasn’t one of those old gentlemen’s clubs where the right sort of people stay over when they are down in the city for the weekend; it was primarily an up-market casino with bar and restaurant facilities, the sort of place where you might have found James Bond fifty years ago. Now it played host to a hip young crowd of stockbrokers, investment bankers and the occasional old smuggler like Gareth Lambert.
As it turned out, the dress code was also a lot more relaxed than Banks had expected – he had never been to a club before and he still thought in terms of Lord Peter Wimsey and Bertie Wooster – and he was surprised to see that not everyone was wearing a tie or a suit. Business casual was in. The place wasn’t very busy, but a few people sat around drinking and chatting, and a group of Japanese businessmen had the one large table by the far wall, where they were entertaining some expensive-looking women. Most of the people in the place seemed to be in their thirties, which made Roy and Lambert slightly older than the average member. Nobody paid Banks any undue attention. There was no music.
Banks took one of the stools at the bar and ordered a bottle of Stella. The price was every bit as outrageous as he had expected. The bartender was a woman in her late twenties, by the look of her, about the same age as Corinne and Jennifer. She had very fine short hair dyed pink and blond. She smiled at Banks when she took his order. She had a nice smile; dimples, too.
Banks showed her his card. “Do you work here every night?” he asked.
“Most nights,” she said, scrutinizing the card more closely than the doorman had. “Yorkshire? What brings you down here?”
“Cases can take you all over the place,” Banks said. “People move around a lot more than they used to.”
“You can say that again.”
“Actually, I’m making a few inquiries about Roy Banks. I understand he was a member.”
“Poor Mr. Banks,” she said. “He was a real sweetheart.”
“You knew him?”
“Not really ‘knew.’ I mean, not outside of work. But we talked here occasionally. You tend to do that, in this job. He always had time for the bar staff, not like some of our more stuck-up members.”
“Did he sit at the bar and tell you his troubles?”
She laughed. “Oh, no. That only happens in films.”
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Maria.”
“Pleased to meet you, Maria.”
“What relation are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your name’s Banks, too. I saw it on that card. Are you his brother?”
“Yes,” Banks said.
“You must be gutted.”
“I am. But I’m also trying to find out what happened. Did you talk to him last Friday?”
“Yes. He and Mr. Lambert were sitting at that table just over there.” She pointed to a discreet corner table. “Mr. Banks always made a point of coming over and saying hello and asking me how I was doing. And he always made sure he left a decent tip.”
“Did he have anything to say that night?”
A waitress appeared asking for drinks. Maria excused herself for a moment and filled the order with graceful efficiency. “What was it you wanted to know?” she asked when she came back.
“Just if Roy had said anything out of the ordinary to you.”
“No. Nothing. Not that that I remember.”
“Did he seem upset or annoyed?”
“Not at first. A bit preoccupied, maybe.”
“Later?”
“After he’d been talking to Mr. Lambert for a while he seemed to be getting uncomfortable, if you know what I mean. I don’t know how to describe it, but you could sort of feel the tension, even from over here.”